Lifeline
by ImpishTubist
Summary: A rattled Sherlock places a desperate call after that first night out on the moor. A missing scene from "Hounds."


**Beta:** Canon_Is_Relative

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Notes:** This is a missing scene from "Hounds." It takes place in the "All Right" 'verse, but can be read as a stand alone gen fic. For those following the 'verse, this takes place after "Certainties" but before "Take This Sabbath Hour." This was originally written and posted on LJ and AO3 in March, 2012.

* * *

Lestrade waited until the third ring to pick up his mobile, as he usually did when Sherlock called.

"This better be good," he said in mild irritation, a whistling wind carrying his words over the line. It was an ocean breeze, approximately eight knots and coming from the southwest, Sherlock noted. A clatter accompanied each gust - shutters being knocked against the wall of a cottage which, presumably, Lestrade had ducked around in order to take shelter from the wind.

Lost in his observations, Sherlock failed to note that the silence had dragged on for a beat longer than was acceptable until Lestrade said, uneasily, "Sherlock, you still there?"

"Lestrade -" he tried, but then his voice failed him and he found he could do nothing more than move his jaw soundlessly.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's words instantly took on a tinge of concern, one that Sherlock would normally deride him for but right now it served as a salve for his frayed nerves. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, trying to gather the loose threads of his thoughts and form the words that he needed. And then Lestrade was bellowing, "Sherlock!" into his ear and he started, jerking back and slamming his head against the rough brick of the wall behind him.

"Here," Sherlock gasped in surprise as he reeled from the sudden pain and the abrupt dose of reality. "I'm - I'm here. Lestrade..."

"What's wrong?" Lestrade demanded. "Where are you?"

"Dartmoor. Case." The rough wall was digging into his back and the stones he was sitting on were cold, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to move. He had bolted from the inn not long after John, but didn't make it nearly as far as his fr - colleague . He had collapsed in a heap around the side of the building and had been fumbling for his mobile and dialing Lestrade's number even before he realized what his fingers were doing.

_"What's happened_, Sherlock?" Lestrade sounded panicked now, and Sherlock wanted to say, _No, I'm fine, it's all fine, don't sound like that, really, Lestrade, you worry far too much,_ but the words wouldn't come. He never usually had issues with lying to Lestrade but tonight - tonight he was finding that many of his preconceived notions about himself and his world had been shaken.

"I don't - I don't know."

Wind howled over the mobile, almost drowning out Lestrade's next words. "Well, _something_ must have. Good God, you sound awful."

"Don't you think I know that?" Sherlock hissed, kneading fingers through his hair in frustration.

"What's wrong, then? What's happened to you?" Lestrade waited out the silence for four seconds before adding, softly, "I'm here. Tell me what's going on."

"Would you believe, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked with a wild chuckle, holding his hand out flat and watching as tremors wracked it. "I'm afraid."

"You're _what?"_

"It's not often you hear that, is it?" Sherlock said, voice skittering up the scale even as he fought to bring it under control. And then he added, in an almost-whisper, "_Fuck_ , Greg..."

He trailed off and Lestrade gave a pained, "Oh, bloody hell."

"I can't stop it," Sherlock said, and tucked himself deeper into his coat. A door on the other side of the inn opened and closed with a bang, and he started violently. _"Shit."_

"Where are you, at this moment?"

Sherlock told him.

"You're safe, then, you hear me? You're at the inn; you're all right," Lestrade tried to soothe, and from his grunt Sherlock surmised he had just taken a seat. "Can you take a deep breath for me? Good. Now, from the beginning. What are you doing in Dartmoor?"

"Client," Sherlock hissed, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose as the initial meeting with Henry Knight at the flat played like a movie reel across his mind. "Came about the demon hound."

His voice shook on _demon_ , and he cursed himself for it. He hoped that Lestrade would not hear, or would chalk it up to wind playing across the speaker.

"You took a case about a demon hound?" Lestrade asked, sounding incredulous.

"It intrigued me," Sherlock snapped, suddenly defensive.

"All right, all right." Lestrade backed off immediately, and Sherlock could picture him throwing up a hand to calm him. "Keep going. What happened after that?"

And the story came out in shaky fits and spurts, Lestrade having to prod Sherlock along every few minutes because the words would stutter to a halt in his throat and his mind would go blank save for those terrible _eyes_ and the oppressive darkness that clung to his skin and clawed at the edges of his mind.

"Sherlock, stay with me!" Lestrade barked when Sherlock had reached the end of his tale and found he couldn't go on. He was still out at the moor, beams of light cutting through the inky darkness and bouncing back at them off the fog, the growls of the unseen creature filling his ears and those piercing -

_"Sherlock!"_ Lestrade's voice snapped him back to reality. "Listen to me very carefully. You are not out on the moor; you're back at the inn. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispered. "I - I hear you."

"Thank Christ for that," Lestrade said in one breath, sighing in relief. "You went away on me for a second. Don't do that."

"I can't _help_ it, Lestrade," Sherlock ground out, because his mind was _stuck,_ caught in an endless loop, images flashing across the inside of his eyes whether he gave them permission to or not and -

"God, lad, what mess have you got into now?" Lestrade's voice sliced through the chatter in his mind, grounding him abruptly. "Look, what's the name of that inn? I can be there -"

"Lestrade -"

" - in about two days' time, 'cause we drove all the way out here. Wish I could make it sooner, but - "

"Don't let Mycroft hear you say that," Sherlock muttered darkly. "He'd send the helicopter for you."

Lestrade groaned. "Oh, he would, wouldn't he? Probably would touch down right in the middle of the bloody beach and demand that I go check on you."

"As if you would need persuading."

Lestrade gave a chuckle, but the momentarily light mood was broken by the sharp cry of an owl; Sherlock flinched and then squeezed the bridge of his nose between two fingers, willing his heart rate back under control. He must have made a distressed noise, too, because Lestrade's voice took on a distinct note of urgency.

"Sherlock? Sher - right, sod this. I'm coming out there."

"Don't," Sherlock snapped. "No, Lestrade, I - I'm fine."

"Fuck, Sherlock, you sound bloody terrified. You are most certainly _not_ fine. Where's John?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, _you don't know?_ Didn't he come with you?" Lestrade's voice was suddenly harsh, and Sherlock felt his chest constrict.

"He did, yes, but we had a...misunderstanding. He is fine. Safe." Sherlock threaded shaking fingers through his hair. "Just...not here at the moment. He's not here."

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said quietly.

"Can you handle another surprise, Lestrade?" Sherlock muttered. "So am I."

Lestrade blew out a frustrated breath over the phone. "What happened between you two?"

"He didn't see it," Sherlock whispered. "The hound. We were out on the moor and he - he didn't see the damn thing but I did, though I can't understand _why_ ..."

"Okay, listen to me," Lestrade said, firm. "You did _not_ see a demon hound. There's no such thing."

"I _know_ that , and yet I did see it. This is _maddening_ , Lestrade," Sherlock growled, suddenly furious. "I saw something that cannot be true. So how could I have seen it if it's impossible? Either my sight is failing me or my mind, and yet I've found no flaws with either."

A strained silence followed his outburst and Sherlock rubbed his temple with his free hand, feeling the beginnings of a headache starting to take root around his jaw and ear, the muscles tightening and locking with tension.

"Are you sure about that?" Lestrade finally asked.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock snapped.

"I mean that's a pretty big assumption to make for someone who hates such things," Lestrade pointed out carefully. "You wanna know what I think?"

"Not really."

"The last time you were like this," Lestrade said in a low voice, ignoring him, "was six years ago, when you were still fighting the drugs. You don't remember a lot of that time, but I do. They focused your mind, yeah, but they also made you frighteningly paranoid. You were as rational as ever when you were clean and sober, but those relapses were brutal." Lestrade sucked in a deep breath. "What you're telling me now sounds a lot like those early days."

"I -" Sherlock froze. "Say that again."

"You and John were both out on the moor, in the exact same conditions, yet one of you saw something and one didn't?" Lestrade asked. "Your behaviour makes it sound like you were drugged."

There was a snap of a twig in the silence that followed. Sherlock's eyes flicked to where the sound had come from, but he didn't start nearly as badly as he had earlier.

_Drugs._

"Lestrade," Sherlock said slowly as the pieces started to fall into place, "sometimes, you are a bloody genius."

"Well, thanks. I think. Now, before you dash off - you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock said briskly, getting to his feet.

"Would you tell me if you weren't?"

"I did call, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Lestrade sighed, sounding unconvinced. "I s'pose you did."

The wind on the other end of the line picked up again and for a moment Sherlock was standing on a faraway beach next to Lestrade, feeling the salt-laden ocean breeze play about his face and bare arms. They were pressed together from shoulder to elbow, Lestrade a warm and steady presence; an anchor.

"I trust you're having a satisfactory holiday?" Sherlock asked as the fleeting image faded.

"Missing me already, lad?" Lestrade's voice was amused. "Thought you'd be glad to have me out of your hair for a few days."

Sherlock had no words with which to answer him and Lestrade, apparently recognizing this, cleared his throat and went on.

"Yeah, it's been nice. Well, mostly." Lestrade gave a huff of a laugh. "Had an allergic reaction to a bug bite this afternoon; hand swelled up within a few minutes. You'd have found it fascinating. Took Jody twenty minutes to work my ring off my finger; she thought we'd have to have it cut off. The ring, I mean, not the finger."

"Did you take any photographs?"

Lestrade sighed. "You know, Jody didn't believe me when I said that you'd want them. Yeah, you perverse man, I took some photos for you. And you can examine the bite all you want when you're done with your case."

"Good."

His partner gave a soft chuckle and then took a moment to interpret the expectant silence that followed Sherlock's words, the one that indicated Lestrade should continue with his recollections. He started, in a slightly hesitant tone, "Marissa's grown."

"I believe children tend to do that."

"Shut it, you," Lestrade said, and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice. He had always been inordinately fond of his niece, and sounded pleased that Sherlock had inquired about her. Sherlock, for his part, found that his interest was genuine. "She's been asking after you, actually. You haven't seen her since, what, Christmas before last?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, though he refrained from adding that he actually didn't remember too much of that particular day. He had cracked four of his ribs as the result of a poorly-executed jump from a fire escape and spent the majority of Christmas Day confined to Lestrade's bed. He had been doped up on painkillers while Lestrade entertained his sister, then-brother-in-law, and niece. At one point Marissa, eight years old and tired of the adults, had crawled into bed with Sherlock and proceeded to read to him from one of the books she had brought along. Sherlock's drugged mind had saved very little from that day, and he was sorry to admit to himself that he couldn't even recall what the story had been about.

"You'll have to fix that soon." Lestrade's voice took on a hint of amusement. "I've become the 'bad uncle' 'cause I don't ever bring you to see her."

Sherlock snorted, and then did a quick calculation in his head. "Her birthday is in the summer."

"Yeah," Lestrade confirmed slowly, confusion evident in his tone at the change in topic.

"I believe it is customary for one to give a birthday gift in person, and as I did choose part of her present it would only be proper for me to make an appearance," Sherlock went on. "Or am I mistaken?"

"Since when do you care about appearances?" Lestrade griped. When Sherlock said nothing, he added, hesitantly, "You really want to come?"

Sherlock tipped his head back so it rested against the brick wall of the inn. "If it's acceptable."

"W - yeah, 'course it is, I just - I never thought you'd be interested."

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I am."

"Right," Lestrade said dumbly. "I - I'll be sure to let her know. She'll be pleased."

"I'm glad. And I...look forward to it." Sherlock sucked in a deep breath through his nose. His senses still felt heightened, more so than normal, and his skin continued to tingle with unease. But his breathing had finally evened out and his heart was no longer knocking against his ribcage; it was time to return to the matter at hand. "I need to go, Lestrade."

"Right, yeah." Lestrade cleared his throat. "You still sound kind of...off, though. Are you sure you're fine?"

"I'm - " Sherlock hesitated, and then said, "No, I don't think I am. Not completely."

"All you have to do is ask," Lestrade said quietly. "I'll be there, if you need me."

"I know." Sherlock passed a hand over his mouth, considering his words. "I will be fine, Lestrade. Case will be wrapped within a day, I'm certain. I'd rather you didn't get involved at this point."

"Sherlock -"

"Greg," he said firmly, "if you so much as show your face here, I _will_ disown you. I will disavow all knowledge of you. I will purposefully pick fights with Anderson the next time I work one of your cases. I will _delete you from my hard drive_ ."

Lestrade gave a bark of a laugh. "I'd like to see you try."

Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth tug upwards. "Well, perhaps not the last one."

"Right, well," Lestrade said briskly, clearing his throat. "Come back to London in one piece, then. You hear me? No getting mauled by a demon hound or anything."

"I will." Sherlock hesitated. "I...appreciated this."

"Anytime," Lestrade said, a small smile in his voice. "I'll see you soon. Take care of yourself."

"I always do."

There was a chuckle. "No, you don't."

Sherlock lingered outside for a few moments after ending the call, his gaze drawn to the sky as Lestrade's voice faded from his ear. It was a clear night; he wondered if Lestrade could also see these stars from where he was on holiday.

_Sentiment_ , John's voice said, and Sherlock scowled, forcibly breaking himself from his thoughts. He wrapped his coat tighter about his body, even though it was a mild night, and headed back to the inn.

There was work to be done.


End file.
